


No Mouth To Speak, No Eyes To See

by Phrenotobe



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Dreadlords - Freeform, F/M, Heroes cannot die, Infinite Regalia DLC, Zombies, descriptions of scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 21:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14756750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe/pseuds/Phrenotobe
Summary: Dreadlords have always lived in the castle. The weapons here exist, timeless and waiting, in a space between worlds that hums with power. Power in the wrong hands is dangerous, but Dreadlords are power devoid of intent. They are the perfect keepers. Made of fallen warriors, born in conflict, constructed through souls wasted and of the anguish of the lost. Dreadlords have lost everything, even their name.





	No Mouth To Speak, No Eyes To See

**Author's Note:**

> From the 'Infinite Regalia enemies are actually 1st gen characters' hints that are liberally spilled through this DLC. This is not anything to do with previous dreadlords in the series, but the implication is that whatever happens, they always end up here.

In the castle of Infinite Regalia, the Dreadlords guard weapons with long histories and ancient names. In their hands they bear weapons that once belonged to saints and pirates, mercenaries and warlords. Some were buried with them, and some Dreadlords died because of them. Others, weapons and Dreadlords both, were not buried at all. 

The helmet that covers the great Sage Ovis's eyes does not suit him. His proud jaw and long nose jut from it, but his vision is always clouded by the heavy helm he bears. The Swordmaster Simia's face guard holds her jaw in place, eyes open and mouth closed. She has nothing much to say. They stand like chess pieces awaiting, not hampered by the messy fallibility of living flesh and beating blood. 

Dreadlords have always lived in the castle. The weapons here exist, timeless and waiting, in a space between worlds that hums with power. Power in the wrong hands is dangerous, but Dreadlords are power devoid of intent. They are the perfect keepers. Made of fallen warriors, born in conflict, constructed through souls wasted and of the anguish of the lost. Dreadlords have lost everything, even their name. 

Simia and Ovis guard the chest at the heart of the castle, at the end of a long cloister. There is a time when they themselves were not dreadlords and did not wait within the castle, but memories spins into empty nothingness when they try to recall. There is just the crackle of the torch in the rack on the wall, a far-off drop of water hitting pavement and echoing down the channels - amplified, distorted through the grates. Dreadlords do not sleep; they gain no comfort from food or drink. Their memories are scattered and messy; clearest when they remember war. 

War is what Ovis remembers. The book in his hand reverberates with Naga’s holy song within the pages. It feels like a poem he can’t remember, the words written back all wrong. Alive, the tome never touched his hand, but in death he writes magic with his fingertips. 

Simia has seen the dim horizon that fades to dark past the yellow torch lamps. It fills her head with nothing but a thought of the ocean she might have seen long ago, deep and dark and full. It is cold, the halls are cold, and she is cold. Her hand holds the sword Amatsu, ready to fly from her hand at the first sight of an intruder. 

Amatsu is not her weapon. She knows this, but it fits her hand perfectly. When she is brought to use it, she finds herself moving with technical exactness - she knows every cut it can make. She is connected to it and keeps it by some unknown circumstance. 

His heavy head in his golden helm angles to the woman beside him, an easy few paces to step. He does not move. Instead Simia takes the step to meet Ovis, attracted by the scent of holy writ in his hands, the subconscious noise of the faith she once held in her heart. 

It is wise to step lightly when walking the halls that a dreadlord guards, for they will give no quarter. Death comes swiftly to those who trespass. As the guardians of this place, Ovis and Simia will work in perfect synchronization with the others who hold and wait. 

Her fingernails hook like claws into his robe, tearing three even lines down one sleeve, and his hand reaches to her face, scoring a deep scratch through the leather that wraps around her chin. He pulls the guard from her face, drags away the leather string at the back of her head so that her hair falls over her shoulders. Simia's red eyes stare unblinking as her effort finally brings Ovis's helmet to the floor with a crash. 

Legends say that something in them makes them tougher, heavier; hard like old bread. He reaches out to touch the soft give of her lower lip with his fingertips, allows her hand in his to grasp and hold. His tome falls to the floor as his fingers uncurl, asking for her without words. 

Without helmet, without mask, Simia and Ovis know each other. She reaches out with both hands, rending the collar of his robe until it hangs askance. He holds in place, waiting with perfect patience. When she is satisfied, Simia puts her hands to the ruined halves of his robe and heaves, pushing them away. Underneath the robe is a warrior's wide chest, marred off-center by a jagged and unhealing scar. It is burned at the edges, cauterized. Ovis sighs in a way that only those who do not draw breath can manage. Simia steps forward, her chin raised. A black line draws across her neck from ear to ear, deep in the flesh. It is sour with age, no longer bleeding.

Ovis reaches for her, curved brand livid on his arm against the bluish skin that has mottled and changed under the force of ancient magic. Her palm presses to it as she dips her head to brush her lips against his, tilting to better access the pout of his grim mouth. The kiss means what it means, and her palm grows hot over the shape of his mark. The brand he bears calls to her, but she can’t touch it for long. 

Dreadlords are dead and unkind and merciless; always lost, finding themselves in unlikely places. As the great double doors of the castle swing open with a boom, a golden sheen gleams around Ovis, masking his eyes. A leather mask heals and locks around the angle of Simia’s jaw, rolling up the sides of her face. What once was torn and pushed asunder hangs again in crisp and furled perfection. Her hand is torn from his grip, resetting their place to fit either side of the path. 

There’s a push from the intruders, down at the far end of the cloister. Ovis and Simia’s bodies writhe with readiness, bones popping into place for a perfect guard. Even if they wanted to look at each other again, they can’t. The magic heralds a change even as they are unchanging; the dark halls are alive again, ringing with human voices. Soldiers from a different past are here, to plunder the halls of Infinite Regalia and take what they can as their prize. 

The air in the halls is no longer still, and the breeze that filters through the halls is chill, rustling cloaks and robes, lifting the ends of Simia’s hair. The start of a battle begins at the very end of the hall. 

Equus’s horse is the sound of flagstone chips as the rider flies, his action the crunch of his lance and the clash of metal on wood.  
Canis draws out her tome, and it rings out like the chime of a bell, casting a spark to ignite. The roar of heat rolls off the surface of somebody’s armor and flares over their neighbour. A frightened shriek reverberates through the halls as Equus circles and charges again, and the humans scatter and regroup. They’re in a corner, down where the water drips, their plans broadcasted through the drain. 

The humans make another charge. Paired in twos, they split into three groups that each make their assault. The pair assigned to the middle make it half way up the central cloister, falling back as Lepus raises her stave. Anguilla folds upwards on the saddle to sit, rotates her head back around, and levitates up her own arm to fit on the stump. It locks in place and she brings out her tome, charging the powerful bolt of lightning ready to strike. 

Ovis’s body trembles when he feels thunder in the air. It smells alien, the metallic smell of ozone. It passes as quickly as it came, and his grip tightens around his tome. It means nothing to Simia, deep down in her bones like Ovis feels it. She awaits her enemy in a state of unending readiness.

The humans retreat and advance like curls of waves on the shore, shoving forward past Mus so that his armor clangs against the wall, foxing Lepus and her axe with a weapon that locks the edge of the blade while they angle it till it breaks. They regroup to push the central aisle, felling Anguilla’s horse and knocking Equus from his mount. The humans are already learning, adding on experiences and modifying their attacks. 

They duck Draco’s arrows and cheer for the joy of being alive, scattered laughter and the dry, soft patter of a thief’s running shoes on the tile, soles thin enough to feel the seams where stone meets the edges of stone. There is no corner to plan in, but three turn around to watch the back as the rest move forward. Clad in iron, protected by reinforced leather, the third raises their stave to heal again. 

Tigris holds the forward line in front of Ovis and Simia, and Gallus is close behind him, the golden snake head on his crown issuing hazy wisps of smoke from a second set of ruby eyes. The humans have most of their heavy fighters in the back row, so they gamble luck and speed to push on through. Behind them all, Draco nocks a second set of arrows, raising the bow high. 

Tigris roars like the grate of an old door swinging wide on the hinge. Draco draws an arrow back until Yewfelle creaks under the strain, three arrows fanned through his fingers. They fly swiftly, easily, and one of their group hears the whine of the bowstring, realizes their destined path. They turn and hurl themself at their commander, grabbing an arm and knocking into them to move them away from the arrow strike. An arrow hits and catches in the armor over their shoulder, and the two steady each other as the rest of the company move forward. 

The final charge feels like a footrace, still dealing with the dangers up ahead. Arrows glance off the smooth surface of the general’s armor. The leader turns to detail orders to the back row, trusting the forward line to keep them safe. Draco’s arrows fly interference as Tigris bellows again, heavy momentum under his axe. It clashes against a guarding sword, scrapes loud down the side and chimes off the quillon. Tigris adjusts his bearing again, bringing the axe up for another strike as three more arrows thud into a target. 

A human falls to their knees. They’ve endured much under the heavy axe of Tigris, and their healer is too far to reach, hemmed in by battle and already distracted. Their knife hits the flagstones as they push themselves up, two arrows from Draco’s bow in the forward curve of their back and one pricking at their ribs. They spit blood, the doubled lengths of their hair dusting the ground, swearing as they fight to stand. As soon as their feet are flat on the ground their long knife points upwards, their legs unsteady like a drunkard as they prepare one last all-or-nothing strike. 

Simia’s limbs jerk like a jostled puppet, her joints seizing before they are realigned. The human sees it as weakness, and aims for her chest. Their legs give out as the knife goes in, but Simia doesn’t bend with them. The human curses again, dragging on Simia’s lapel to stand. 

Simia and Ovis care little for curses. All the tales say that dreadlords stay where they are placed, and so they make excellent guardsmen, and for now it is true. They are made of meat like any other warrior, and fight without pause until sufficiently maimed. But this time Simia waits without drawing either blade as the warrior pulls out the knife only to stab again, the movement slow and then sharp like the strike of a viper bite. As the human struggles to stand, Simia moves her arm to brace and hold them upright. 

Dreadlords cannot use subtlety or communicate concepts like peace or kindness; every time they speak it is a roar. They care only for the battle to come, and are useless until it happens. A dreadlord cannot feel pain, nor fear. Their humanity is gone from them, and they recognize no kin.

The knife goes in again. The magic of Infinite Regalia works on and on, sealing up the holes that dot Simia’s chest, coiling heatless red fire around the human’s arm. It has found a hopeless case, something to bring home, and welcomes the human with mindless but dedicated duty. 

The leader of their band finally reaches their protector, hooking arms around their waist and pulling them back as their knife tears out of their hand and their head tips back against their leader’s shoulder. The burn hasn’t stopped, but they look up at their Lord and all their words are gone from their parted mouth. 

One by one the invasion leaves by the open door. The mage follows the beast, the thief and the paladin. The armor knight hangs back, the tip of their lance at a guard as their leader swings the wounded soul up into their arms to hold and carry away. They will return one day, in one way or another. 

Dreadlords cannot die.


End file.
